The Girl in the Glyphs

by David Edmonds

  “That was your decision, not mine.”

  “Wrong again; it was a committee decision, a vote of two to one. Now sit back down and let Ms. McMullen get on with her presentation. You’re out of order.”

  “No, Dr. Gruber, you’re out of order. I made a motion that we postpone this travesty until after we’ve had her discovery examined.”

  Frieda sighed and looked at Abby. “Do I hear a second?”

  Abby remained silent. No one moved. When it became apparent the motion was going to fail, the bishop on the second row came noisily to his feet, supporting himself on a wooden cane.

  “I second the motion,” he said, rapping his cane on the floor.

  I stared at him. He was an elderly man with white hair, bushy eyebrows, and the kind of red face and broken veins I associated with heavy drinkers. Frieda, obviously thinking him deranged, spoke to him like a nurse in a nursery home. “I’m sorry, Bishop, but this is an academic proceeding. Guests aren’t allowed to participate.”

  “See here, young lady,” he shot back with a touch of Ireland. “This is also an ecclesiastical matter. We will not allow the Church to be tainted. Our position is that there is only one Moses, and he was the Moses of the land of Abraham.”

  “Amen,” thundered the representative of the Southern Baptist Association.

  The bishop rapped his cane on the floor three times. This seemed to be a signal for his supporters. One by one they popped up around the room—six priests, the Baptist, a rabbi, a mullah, two nuns and three others in civilian clothing, each saying in turn:

  “I second the motion.”

  Chapter 81

  Frieda stood there with the ghastly look of a prisoner in a hostage video. At the same time, the bishop was limping up and down the rows with his cane, slapping his supporters on the shoulder, pumping them up like a coach at a sports event.

  At length, Frieda turned her attention back to the protestors. “Listen, Bishop, listen up everyone. I want you to sit down and listen to Ms. McMullen’s presentation. If you can’t sit and listen, then I invite you to leave. There’s the door.”

  Students applauded and nodded agreement. There were shouts to sit down.

  Frieda pounded the table for order, but it wasn’t until the Seneca leader came to his feet—all earrings, beads, tribal belt and dangling plaits—that the room fell silent.

  He glared at the bishop in stony Indian dignity. The place couldn’t have been more hushed if Moses himself had entered the room with a slate of commandments. “Where is it written,” he asked in a deep baritone, “that your people have a monopoly on laws for my people?”

  He pointed at me with an outstretched arm. “Let this woman tell her story.”

  The room erupted in applause, followed by the chant, “Jennifer! Jennifer! Jennifer!”

  Again, Frieda pounded the table. The protestors sat down. I moved back to the podium and asked Carla to shut off the lights.

  Then someone flung a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  It hit Hosmer on the shoulder and spilled all over his green suit. A security guard charged into the crowd and grabbed a young woman—the Goth student from one of my classes.

  She screamed. She fought. “It wasn’t me!” she shouted. Other students came to her aid. More guards moved in, and the entire place disintegrated into curses and shouts.

  Frieda took my arm and led me out of the room, slamming the door on the chaos.

  “Bastards!” she said, spraying spittle. “You’d think the Philistines were at the gates.”

  She marched back and forth in the hallway, her face red with anger, mumbling curses. Then she came back and touched my arm. “Maybe we should postpone.”

  “You’re going to cave to Hosmer?”

  “We can’t approve today anyway. Not until after we’ve seen the plates.”

  The commotion grew louder. I crossed to the window and looked out at the rain that was still falling. Less than thirty minutes ago, I’d deluded myself into believing I’d walk out of this building as a star of the archaeological world. And now we were going to postpone.

  I turned back to Frieda. “Once you’ve seen the text, there’s no problem. Right?”

  “Right. All we need are witnesses. Far as I’m concerned we can have the dissertation defense right there in the cave, without bishops and rabbis.”

  A sudden vivid image flashed through my head: a dark cave, the smell of bat dung, Hosmer fingering his cross, me testing the sharpness of a machete.

  “I know about the treasure hunters,” Frieda added. “That’s why we’ve got to keep it quiet.”

  We marched back in. The room was still in turmoil, the protesting clergy on one side, students and faculty on the other, insults flying like brickbats.

  “Listen up,” Frieda said. “We’re going to postpone until next Friday.”

  A chorus of groans filled the air. The city detective shook his head and stalked out. Reporters rushed forward with their questions:

  “What is your response to Dr. Hosmer’s allegations?”

  “Did you fabricate that story about the cave?”

  “Can you tell us a few of the commandments?”

  I retreated to the podium and cowered behind a security guard. The room began to clear—a grumbling procession of students and spectators. The Senecas nodded politely as they left. The students applauded or gave me a thumbs-up. The priests whizzed by in their robes. The bishop snorted. The Baptist from Dallas defiantly held up his Bible.

  Elizabeth was the last spectator to leave. “See you in Nicaragua,” she said.

  In time, there remained only Martha, the members of my committee and me. Frieda closed the door, locked it, slumped into a chair and wagged an angry finger at Hosmer. “What you did was unacceptable. If you don’t want to be a member of this committee, you should resign.”

  He shrugged but just stood there in his coffee-stained jacket, saying nothing.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Frieda said. “Daniel Boone already booked us for an eight a.m. Monday out of Kennedy. Assuming it all works out, we check out the cave on Tuesday—”

  Hosmer raised his hand. “What about the experts?”

  “We’re the experts. There’s not going to be anyone else. Understand?”

  I stuffed my notes back into my briefcase, headed for the door—and almost ran into Sutter.

  There he stood in black leather jacket and rumpled khakis, face unshaven. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Just came in from London.” He looked from me to Frieda and at the mess on the floor.

  “What happened?”

  “Ask Jennifer. She’ll tell you.”

  We had lunch at our little French restaurant, where I told him about the disaster that had just occurred. He told me about his trip to London and all that had happened since the party.

  Yes, he said, he’d be going with us to Nicaragua.

  He drove me home. We kissed, and when I entered the apartment, Carla came hurrying out of her bedroom with a just-got-laid look and a sheet about her.

  “Guess what? We’re going with you to Nicaragua. Ricardo confirmed the tickets.”

  “You can’t do that. The committee won’t allow it.”

  “The committee has nothing to do with it. Ricardo’s taking me to meet his parents.”

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  Managua, Nicaragua

  The dread I felt at returning to Nicaragua remained with me the entire flight. It grew worse during the descent, and worse still when I glanced out the window and saw the churning black smoke of Volcán Masaya, the sagging rooflines of Managua, and a black volcanic lake.

  Sutter took my hand. “Relax, it’s going to be okay.”

  The plane touched down and was still taxiing along the runway when Daniel Boone jumped into the aisle with his microphone, looking like a casting director in black beret and vest with all the pockets. “Nicaragua,” he said in his Australian accent, “a tortured land of volcanoes, lakes and rain forests, the land of Sandinistas and Contras.
It’s also a—”

  Over the p.a. system came the voice of the flight attendant:

  “Would the gentleman in the aisle please sit down and buckle up?”

  The Managua airport still didn’t have access ramps from aircraft to terminal, so for the third time I stepped down from the plane and followed the others across a smelly tarmac. The sharp smell of sulfur hung in the air. Someone said Volcán Masaya was acting up again. Hosmer grumbled about the heat. But the only thing that concerned me was a group of soldiers I saw near the terminal. Was Gonzales with them? Were they waiting for me?

  I put on my sunglasses and eased to the side of Sutter, away from them. Maybe they’d think I was just the wife of the good-looking man in the leather jacket. But Boone, who could be as annoying as Elizabeth Alvarado, bolted ahead with his camera and microphone.

  “Jennifer,” he shouted, “what are your impressions at coming back?”

  Soldiers gawked and pointed as if I were a famous star. Sutter told Boone to put away the camera. No one stopped us, and then we were inside the terminal, paying our entry fee.

  We got through customs with our luggage and were finally outside, looking for Rosario, only to be set upon by the usual a mob of beggars, money changers, taxi drivers, and tour guides.

  “Dollar, dollar, I change your dollars.”

  “Señorita, por favor, un peso.”

  Ricardo and Carla said their goodbyes and hurried off toward a cab. Then a white van drove up and stopped beside us. Rosario, I thought, until I saw the sign on the side.

  NICARAGUA CANAL 4.

  The door slid open and out stepped Elizabeth Alvarado with her crew and camera.

  “Smile,” she said, “you’re on live television.”

  I glanced around at Hosmer. “Don’t blame me,” he said, “I haven’t breathed a word.”

  Elizabeth pushed into our group and shoved a mike into my face. “I hear you’re going to do a reenactment of the discovery. May we go along to film it?”

  Before I could respond, a portly woman I hadn’t noticed before stepped to my front.

  “Absolutely not,” she said to Elizabeth. “We already have a crew.”

  “And who are you?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Rosario Mariategui, head of the Cultural Institute.”

  Elizabeth looked at Boone and his two assistants who were filming them while they were filming us. “Your crew is North American,” she said. “Why not a local crew?”

  “Because we have a problem with treasure hunters and vandals.”

  “Are you saying foreigners can protect our treasures better than our own people? Aren’t you forgetting this is Nicaraguan soil, Nicaraguan treasures?”

  Rosario ignored her and led us toward another van. Elizabeth followed, speaking into her microphone in Spanish. Words like “ethical imperialism” and “foreign control” flew out of her mouth like missiles. I translated for our group. Rosario interrupted Elizabeth to say she was wrong. The argument grew heated. More people hurried over to see what the fuss was about.

  Dr. Hosmer, who before had remained silent, said, “Wait a minute. Who are we to dictate to the Nicaraguans? This is their country.”

  Rosario whirled on him. “I’m Nicaraguan, sir. I make the decisions here.”

  “That’s right,” said Abby Stern. “So just butt out.”

  Hosmer retreated into the van. Rosario stamped off to her personal car and said she’d see us later. We climbed into our van and were soon speeding down Carretera Norte like a racecar, the driver airing his own grievances: “That woman is typical of all those exiliados returning from the States,” he said. “Some don’t even speak Spanish. Even calls herself Elizabeth instead of Isabél.”

  He was grumbling about strip malls and pizza parlors when Daniel Boone spoke up behind me. “Holy Christ, mate, they’re following.”

  I twisted around and saw the Channel 4 van on our tail.

  “Neat,” said Boone’s girlfriend, a skinny blonde in jeans. “This is just like the movies.”

  Boone got his cameras rolling again. “Intrigue, adventure, excitement,” he said. “In that van behind us are three or four occupants. Are they the television crew they claim to be, or are they someone more sinister? Is it possible we have an informer in our own group?”

  Everyone glared at Hosmer. “Wasn’t me,” he said.

  Boone stretched his microphone over to the chauffeur. “Can you lose them?”

  “Not a problem. They’ve got all that equipment.”

  He downshifted, turned left, roared through a broken traffic signal, and took us through the old portion of Managua. “Lost them,” Boone said into his microphone.

  Another turn and we were soon bouncing along the Masaya Highway, all potholes, love motels, and memories of Alan. Here was Volcán Masaya with its smoke and smells, and there was the notorious Fortress Coyotepe that had once been a prison.

  Boone again trained his camera on me. “What are your feelings about coming back?”

  “All I want is to get it over with.”

  “Oh, come on, Jen. We’re doing this for a national audience. Let’s see some spark.”

  I feigned a yawn and sank deeper into my seat.

  Around a bend, and there below us loomed the ancient colonial city of Granada—sagging red-tiled roofs and churches in the Baroque style, the soaring peak of Mombacho in the background, brilliant in the last rays of sunlight. “This is how Managua used to look,” the driver said.

  A drive around the tree-shaded plaza in front of the cathedral, a swing to the left, and we pulled up to our hotel just as streetlights were coming on.

  The same hotel where I’d fallen in love with Alan.

  “You’ll like it here,” the driver said. “It has ghosts.”

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  Granada, Nicaragua

  Unlike Managua with its heat and polluted air, Granada’s air was cool and filled with sounds of salsa and the perfume of orange blossoms. Children played in the plaza. Old men sat on benches, lovers stood back in the shadows, and a horse-drawn carriage clattered by.

  No soldiers. Nothing scary or sinister looking. Even the hotel looked different with a coat of new paint. No bullet-riddled exterior or crumbling columns either.

  Bogie and Bacall would never stay in a nice place like this.

  Bellboys took our bags and led us inside, past the patio where I’d sat with Alan.

  While Sutter and Boone were checking us in, I took in the familiar cigar smoke in the air. The turning ceiling fans. The potted palm I’d knocked over during the fight.

  The wicker chair.

  Sutter came up behind me. “Second floor,” he announced.

  I followed them up the same stairs Alan and I had tread a dozen times, into the same hallway with its wooden floors and wax smells, and right up to the door of my old room. The same green door that looked as if it had came from a medieval castle.

  The young man with the keys pushed it open. “This room is for”—he consulted his list—”Señorita Jennifer McMullen.”

  “Wait, are you saying this room is for me?”

  “For you, señorita. Says so right here.”

  Boone switched on his camera as if he’d come upon a moment of high drama. Hosmer poked his head inside and looked around. Frieda asked what was wrong.

  I knew better than to make an issue of it, right there in front of my dissertation committee, so I said, “This room will do fine,” and stepped back into history.

  Everything looked painfully the same—the balcony doors and wood floors. The iron hooks on the wall for Father Antonio’s hammock. The chair where Alan had proclaimed his love for me.

  Don’t think about it, I told myself. Get over him.

  I showered, called my mom to tell her I was okay, did my hair, and was ironing the clothes I’d chosen for dinner when Rosario showed up at the door.

  “We need to talk,” she said, and swept into the room in a flowing outfit that heavy women sometimes wear to hide
their portliness. Before I could ask about what, she said, “We’ve got too many people for this expedition. Five from your university, three from National Geographic, and three from my party. Then you’ve got Don Eduardo.”

  “Don Eduardo?”

  “Your coordinator. You’ll meet him at dinner tonight. That makes it twelve people. We’ll never be able to get to the cave and back without being seen.”

  “I can’t dictate who goes and who doesn’t.”

  “No, but I can.” She headed for the door. “This is Nicaragua. Things happen.”

  The cathedral clock was chiming eight when I finished dressing and went downstairs for dinner. Sutter was standing near the entry to our private dining room, looking elegant in a dark jacket with his shirt buttoned at the collar. Rosario, now with a shawl about her shoulders, guided us inside and over to the head table where a handsome black man sat with his wife.

  The man stood on my approach and offered his hand. “Finally we meet,” he said in that refined voice I knew so well.

  Holbrook Easton, the legal attaché of the US Embassy.

  I stood there in frozen panic. Was he going to frisk me for firearms? Interrogate me? Pull a photograph of Fuente’s dead body from his briefcase?

  “Have you two met before?” Sutter asked.

  “Only on the phone,” Easton said.

  They seated me next to him—next to this same man who’d berated me on the phone with a hundred questions. He touched my arm. I held my breath and waited.

  “Congratulations on your discovery,” he said.

  “Yes,” his wife added, “you’re going to be famous.”

  Candles burned. We ate. Holbrook Easton didn’t interrogate me. There was laughter and the buzz of conversation. Servers came and went, and I was trying to work up the courage to ask Easton about Alan, when Sutter stood and tinkled a spoon against a wine goblet.

  Servers left the room. Boone’s girlfriend sprang to the tripod and got the camera going. Abby ran a brush through her hair. Sutter thanked everyone and introduced Mr. Easton.